Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (41 page)

On the dimly lit wall to the left of the sofa hung a huge painting. The work was richly mounted in a gilt frame which was elaborately carved and at least twelve inches deep. The cost of the frame very nearly exceeded the price of the painting, for Evangeline could fairly guess at the value of such a fine mounting . . . and she knew to the very ha’penny just what the marquis of Rannoch had paid for the canvas.

How could she not? The painting was hers.

Evangeline closed her gaping mouth and stared in astonishment. Of all her works, she knew that
The Fall of Leopold at Sempach
was her very finest, the long-awaited culmination of years of painstaking study. Evangeline had been a little saddened while watching Peter’s workmen crate it for the trip to London, and a part of her had hoped that he would be unable to sell it for the impossibly high price she had set. Her prayers had been in vain, for the work had been snatched up, still in its original crate, by a nameless man who paid Peter in gold and carted it away, sight unseen. At the time, it had been most puzzling.

Before Evangeline could assimilate the extraordinary happenstance of finding the battle of Sempach raging across her husband’s drawing-room wall, a soft knock sounded, and a round-faced chambermaid poked her head through the door. Despite her confusion and fatigue, Evangeline managed to dredge up a name to go with the face. “Yes, Trudy?”

The girl bobbed a quick, deep curtsey and looked around. Obviously, she had expected Elliot. “Beg pardon, my lady, but his lordship said as how I might bring Miss Zoë down to him? She’s a bit too excited for sleep just yet.”

From behind Trudy’s starched skirts, a tiny face in a white nightcap peeped out.

Evangeline came swiftly to her feet and flew across the distance to the door. “And who wouldn’t be! After such commotion, I daresay I shan’t sleep, either.”

Trudy wavered uncertainly in the door as Evangeline knelt to look at Elliot’s daughter. Zoë Armstrong was plump and china-doll pretty, with a perfect bow mouth, wide brown eyes, and a mop of wild chestnut curls no nightcap could ever suppress. They sprang out in all directions, giving one the impression of having disturbed a woodland sprite from her slumbers.

Evangeline extended her hand. “Good evening, Zoë,” she softly said. “I am . . . Evangeline.”

For the space of two heartbeats, Zoë stared at the outstretched hand, then crossed her arms stubbornly over her tummy. Her bottom lip protruded into a querulous expression, which made her look so much like her father that Evangeline was compelled to choke back a giggle.

The girl narrowed her gaze skeptically and stared at Evangeline. “My papa,” she finally proclaimed, “says that I am to have some cousins to play with. And a mother, too.”

“And so you shall,” agreed Evangeline. “As to the mother, why. . . I suppose your papa meant me. Shall you mind it very much?”

“Have you brought the cousins?” asked Zoë intractably, as if negotiating with a horse trader. She studied Evangeline with unveiled suspicion, and this time Evangeline saw her husband’s flashing eyes.

“Oh, indeed I have,” answered Evangeline gravely. “A whole carriage load. More than you can count, I daresay.”

“Hoo!” said Zoë dismissively. “I doubt that! I am seven years old. And I can count to five hundred.
And
do sums.”

Evangeline strove to look mightily impressed. “Can you, indeed?” she asked.

Zoë nodded and finally took the outstretched hand. Evangeline rose from her crouch on the floor and steered the child toward the sofa. “I confess, Zoë, I am all astonishment at such skill. I was given to understand that you had no teacher, and so I have brought one with me. But perhaps you have no need of him?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Zoë admitted, as she clambered up onto the sofa. She wiggled back and forth until she was comfortable and sat, bouncing one foot up and down with restless energy. Evangeline took the seat beside her. “I suppose I might need one,” the child continued, “for I’ve not had a governess in ever so long . . . not since Papa set Miss Smith on fire.” The minx beamed mischievously.

Evangeline inadvertently hiccuped with laughter. “Oh-ho! Set her on fire, did he?”

Trudy rushed into the conversation. “Oh! Not set
on
fire, my lady!” she interjected. “
Fired.
His lordship discharged Miss Smith, that’s all.”

Zoë looked askance at her maid and huddled closer to Evangeline. “Oh, Tru! I know he didn’t really do such a thing,” she peevishly responded, in the small, brittle tone of a child who was badly in want of sleep. Her foot was barely bouncing now as she stretched, then scrubbed a fist over one eye. “But I am glad that she’s gone, just the same.”

Evangeline watched the girl’s eyes grow heavy. “Don’t worry, Zoë,” she said softly, smoothing down her nightcap with one hand. “You shall like Mr. Stokely. I promise.”

Zoë barely nodded. Her foot had ceased to move. “Your hair really is the color of our yellow wallpaper,” the child muttered, her head falling somnolently against Evangeline’s shoulder. “And you’re pretty, too, just as Papa said. Am I to call you Mama?”

“As you wish, Zoë,” whispered Evangeline as the child’s eyes dropped shut. “Sleep on it. You need not decide just now.”

For a time, Evangeline sat perfectly still, quietly looking down on the child as she drowsed, searching Zoë’s expression for more bits and pieces of Elliot. She found them, too—in the turn of Zoë’s cheek, the tilt of her brow, and the long sooty lashes that fringed the girl’s eyes. Gently, Evangeline crooked one arm around to tuck back a loose curl that tickled at Zoë’s nose.

“You make a lovely pair, Lady Rannoch,” drawled a soft voice from the shadows of the corridor, and her husband strolled into the room with his deliberate, long-legged gait. “I begin to think that perhaps my daughter needs you almost as much as—” And then, apparently noting Trudy’s presence, he shrugged his broad shoulders, smiled faintly, and let the words slip away.

Elliot had shed his coat and turned up his shirtsleeves to reveal the hard tendons of his forearms. In one hand, he held a half-filled tumbler, deeply etched with his coat of arms, and in the other, he carried a tattered book of bedtime stories and a rag doll with one eye missing. Evangeline was pleased to see that he looked relaxed, almost happy, in fact.

For a long moment, Elliot simply stood there, silently watching his wife and his daughter, transfixed by the overwhelming sense of comfort the scene evoked. His
wife.
His
child
. In his home. Yes, this was what had been missing.

Such thoughts were silly and sentimental, he knew, yet he did not give a damn. At last, this nerve-wracking day was over. Evangeline was his now, his warmth and serenity, his haven of peace in a cold, mad world. And as for Zoë, even in sleep, she was a bundle of vibrant energy. Together, Elliot found them perfect, flawless in their symmetry, a sonnet made of flesh and blood. For the third time since meeting Evangeline Stone, Elliot found himself fervently wishing that he were an artist, capable of committing such beauty to canvas.

“She is asleep,” said Evangeline. Trudy stepped closer.

“So she is,” answered Elliot softly. Quietly, he leaned forward to set down his glass and the toys, then scooped up his daughter with one arm. “I shall tuck her in. Trudy, you should take yourself off to bed as well.”

Trudy nodded and exited into the corridor. Elliot watched her go, then slowly turned to face Evangeline. “My dear, I shall return in a few minutes.” He looked her up and down. “A few
short
minutes,” he belatedly clarified, “if you will wait for me.”

Evangeline struck a haughty pose, folding her hands demurely into her lap. “That would depend, I suppose.”

“On?” Elliot crooked a dark brow at her.

She lifted her chin disdainfully. “On whether or not you really said I had hair the color of your
wallpaper.”

Elliot shot her a boyish, sideways grin. “If memory serves, it was very costly wallpaper. Does that in any way mitigate the insult? Or must I grovel?”

“Grovel, I daresay.”

Elliot nodded gravely. “Yes, your ladyship.” And then he was gone.

Left alone, still inwardly laughing, Evangeline began to muse over the man she had just married. Had she really made such a bad bargain? At times like this, when Elliot seemed more like Mr. Roberts than the marquis of Rannoch, it surely seemed she had not. Michael was safe, and, in truth, she was not, at this moment, unhappy. Clearly, there were many aspects of Elliot’s personality she had yet to discover.

As for his part, tonight Elliot seemed almost light-hearted. She listened as his heavy tread echoed up the winding staircase, and she wondered, too, just what Elliot had been about to say before seeing Trudy standing beside the sofa.
Did
Elliot need her? He had repeatedly said as much, so why could she not let herself believe him? Did he
love
her? Certainly, he was capable of love, far more so than she would ever have thought possible of him. For it was clearly love that shone in his eyes when he looked at his child. And one more thing was equally clear: both Elliot and his daughter were desperately in need of a normal, loving family.

What a fortuitous coincidence. He had just married one, had he not?

The next several days, however, left Evangeline with little time to woolgather. Because it had been uncertain how long the family would remain fixed at Strath, Evangeline had ordered that lessons must go forward as usual, which meant blending Elliot’s daughter not only into the family but into the schoolroom as well. A makeshift studio was established for Evangeline’s work and the small schoolroom carefully dusted and stocked. And throughout the rush and routine, Evangeline could not but notice that Zoë watched her almost constantly with a vague, rather wistful expression. Clearly, the child yearned for maternal companionship and family structure.

Almost as disconcerting, in Evangeline’s opinion, was the child’s woefully neglected education. Her childish bravado notwithstanding, Zoë’s education was hardly what it ought to be. Not only had her instruction been sporadic, but her many governesses had apparently been more concerned with embroidery than geography. After the first day, Evangeline instructed Harlan Stokely to work with Zoë, for the express purpose of evaluating the child’s educational needs.

Consequently, she and Mr. Stokely now reclined in the afternoon shade of Strath’s expansive rear garden, casually chatting. A brace of liveried footmen lingered dutifully in the background, and all of them watched as the children desultorily whacked a tattered shuttlecock back and forth against the glistening backdrop of the river. Despite the beauty of the scene, the summer heat in and around London had become oppressive.

It was a sad truth that ennui had pretty promptly set in at Strath. During the first week, there had been high talk of visits to Astley’s to see the trick horses, to Hatchard’s for new books, and to Gunter’s for flavored ices. To his credit, Elliot had indulged the children in their every whim without complaint. Inwardly, Evangeline chuckled at the stir the wicked marquis and his newest entourage were undoubtedly creating among the
ton.
Nonetheless, even as Elliot persevered in his paternal duty, the attractions of town faded for the children, and the day before, they had begun to mutter discontentedly about a return to the country. Zoë, once reassured that she should accompany them, quickly fell in with the grumbling.

Evangeline sighed.

Seated beside her, Mr. Stokely gravely cleared his throat and poked his spectacles back up his perspiring nose. “To return to our discussion, Miss—er,
my lad
y—it is my considered opinion that Miss Armstrong is highly intelligent. Though the child has had little direction, and no classical education to speak of ”—he paused to sniff disdainfully—“she is possessed of a sound logic and an imaginative mind. She will catch up and be a welcome addition to the schoolroom.”

“Hmm,” mused Evangeline, watching as Theo Weyden struck the shuttlecock a wild blow, sending it flying in the general direction of Mr. Stokely. It fell a few yards short, however, and disappeared into a tangle of flowering shrubbery.

The younger children leapt into the bushes, vying for possession. Suddenly, a cry of pain rent the stifling air. With instincts attuned to any childhood crisis, Evangeline was out of her chair before the screaming stopped. As she reached the rattling greenery and bent low to peer into the branches, Zoë bolted forth, one tiny arm extended, tears streaming down her face. Frederica and Michael followed on her heels.

“Mama! Mama!” she screeched, launching herself at Evangeline. “It bit me! It bit me!” A wrenching sob tore from her chest and set her lower lip to trembling.

“A bee!” explained Michael breathlessly, drawing up just as Evangeline folded the crying child into her arms.

“A bee!” confirmed Frederica, her glossy curls bobbing. “It stung her pointy finger.”

“See?” wailed Zoë, tugging her hand from the folds of Evangeline’s embrace to produce the wounded digit.

Her index finger really was swelling prodigiously. Gently, Evangeline grasped the hand, pulling it to her lips “Oh, yes, sweetie, you are hurt,” soothed Evangeline, whirling up and about with the child in her arms. So she was
Mama
now. It had taken less than a fortnight to win such high praise. Secretly, Evangeline was pleased.

She stroked her cheek against Zoë’s hair. “We must have a poultice straightaway. Let’s find Mrs. Woody, hmm?” Evangeline continued to murmur to the distraught child, brushing the hand across her lips again. Her attention fixed on Zoë’s tear-stained cheeks, Evangeline strode up the garden path, never noticing her husband until she had very nearly bumped into his massive frame.